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by thesubparpirate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, HP: EWE, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:52:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesubparpirate/pseuds/thesubparpirate
Summary: Harry and Draco have been dating for quite a while, and have certain traditions every year around the holidays. A collection of Christmas fluff without much plot.





	1. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries to trim the tree.

LIGHTS

Harry looked at his boyfriend in amusement. “Is that the third time around now, or the fourth?”

“The fourth,” Draco answered distractedly, fiddling with the wires around him and trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from lines of string lights. “I’m worried I’ll step on them or knock the tree over, could you help?”

Harry smiled as he unwound the lights from around him. He was tired and stiff from doing paperwork all day at the Ministry, but seeing Draco puzzle over Muggle objects like this always made him fond and put him in a better mood. He didn’t try to tell him that just spelling the lights on the tree would be much faster. Ever since Draco learned how Muggles celebrated Christmas, he had so many questions and he’d absolutely _had_ to try it—and so his little act of rebellion had become one of their many traditions.

“What other kinds did you try to put up?” Harry asked. Their favorite, classic string of white fairy lights had kicked the bucket when an unfortunate potions accident had covered most of the sitting room—and all of Draco’s lab—in gelatinous, foul-smelling green goop. Which would have been fine, but the sitting room was where the lights had been patiently waiting to get put up, and wires, unlike most things in their house, could not be spelled clean.

“Well, first I bought a bunch that I thought were the same kind as our old ones, but they gave off a horrible bluish sort of light instead of the nice yellowy ones we used to have. The package said they were made of led?”

“LED lights, a little different.”

“Well, no bother. They hurt my eyes, so I returned them. And then I bought a string of colorful lights, and I liked them but it was much too short for the tree. So I got these two others, and I can’t decide—one of them is a longer colorful one, but I also like this one here, it’s the yellowy lights like we used to have but they blink a bit, like enchanted fairy lights.”

“Would you like me to help?” Draco was ferocious when it came to decorating. Harry had learned quickly to tread cautiously.

"Just, which do you like better?”

“I think I’d prefer the blinking ones, as long as it’s not too fast.”

"It’s not,” Draco said with a nod. Pecking Harry on the cheek, he began to fiddle with the selected wires. “Could you make me some tea?”

"Sure,” he replied, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. Draco usually was the one to greet him like that at the end of the day, unless he was absorbed in research or one of his potions or, such as this instance, immersed in the next Muggle object to discover.

Harry had learned, over the years, about Draco’s necessity for routine. The good morning kisses when they woke up, and then Harry would fix tea and make them breakfast while Draco packed his lunch for him. They would always kiss goodbye—“For luck,” Draco would always say, trying to pat down a rebellious lock of Harry’s hair that never stayed where it was supposed to—and when he came home from work. They switched off on making dinners usually, though Harry always did holiday cooking; he was much better at it than Draco, who barely had a handle on basic meals even after the years they spent together. Of course Harry always told him otherwise. Draco was terribly proud of his potions, but how he couldn’t translate that skill to cooking was always a sore spot for him.

After dinner they would read or watch telly on the couch, cuddled together. It had been very difficult to convince Draco to cuddle when they first started dating, if even dating was the word for that fragile semi-relationship they hadn’t dared to talk about at first. But that was long ago, and months of coaxing and compliments from Harry had worn through his defenses. Draco, always cold around the house and constantly sporting at least one of Harry’s jumpers in the winter, seemed to enjoy snuggling even more than he did.

Harry walked back to the kitchen, peeling off his work robes and draping them across a chair as he went. At the store for dinner, Harry had spotted Draco’s favorite apple cider, and heated that up instead.

Draco padded into the kitchen from the sitting room a while later, as Harry was putting large slabs of salmon into a pan to cook. He brought a gentle hand to Harry’s jaw and kissed him. “How was your day, love?” He glanced around and spotted his mug off to the side. “Oh, cider!” he exclaimed delightedly, looking in. “Thank you, Harry. I’ve been wanting that lately.”

He waved his hand. “’Course. Work was alright. If I knew being an Auror involved so much paperwork, I don’t know if I would have taken the job.”

“You make a brilliant Auror,” Draco replied, sitting down on the couch and wrapping a blanket comfortably around himself. “Though I can’t say I’m upset, if it comes down to doing paperwork or risking your life again.”

"Most of my cases aren’t that bad.” Distracted by cooking, Harry winced when he heard the words he said, and he knew just what Draco would bring up in response.

"The Butler case was.” He was referring to the very case which had caused Harry such a mountain of paperwork. He and his Auror partner—a young witch named Michelle, graduated from Hogwarts three or four years below him, a fiery Gryffindor who he was immediately taken with—as well as Robards himself and a few other highly trained Aurors had rotated on a twenty-four hour watch of a criminal safe house for two weeks.

When the bastards finally gave themselves away, it had resulted in a firefight that put Michelle temporarily in St Mungo’s (though, thankfully, her injuries were easily fixed by the next morning). Due to a mix-up in communication on the part of a nervous, mousy secretary who had been extremely intimidated by Draco’s piercing glare and acerbic scowl, Draco fell under the impression that it was _Harry_ who was injured and had frantically torn apart the ward until he found his very bemused boyfriend lingering outside of Michelle’s room.  

He had not let him out of his sight for two straight days after that, muttering angrily about _stupid Saviors_ and _Boy Who Lived, my arse_. Draco would never admit that he had been scared, but Harry knew he worried, and the worst was that he couldn’t even sugarcoat it, because if anyone knew how cruel some people could be, it was poor Draco.

“I know,” Harry said, trying his hardest not to stir up confrontation about it. He and Draco still bickered often, but it was lighthearted and often filled with gentle teasing and laughter. This was one subject they could never laugh about. It often left Draco in tears, and he didn’t want that, could never stand that. His first instinct was always to gather him up in a hug, but Draco would push him away and spit venom at him, and then lock himself in his lab or obsessively clean whichever room seemed to be suddenly dirty until he was calm again. And even after, if the fight was bad enough, Draco would sometimes still sulk. Once, he hadn’t talked to him for two days, the stubborn git. “I’m sorry.”

Draco made a noncommittal noise, raising a shoulder in a shrug and bringing his mug up to his mouth, the sleeves of his jumper protecting his hands from the hot ceramic.

Harry changed the subject. “How is that potion going? The one you’re making for the Doddards?” Draco had recently started his own business, right after becoming one of the youngest Potions Masters that century. “Holed up with nothing else to do,” Draco had said to Harry once, when the odd flash of humility showed through the crack in that façade of arrogance he displayed for most people. “I have something to thank that year of house arrest for, at least.”

"You know, I had a thought today,” Draco started, obviously brightening. He loved talking about his work—he and Hermione could talk for hours and hours about it, usually while Harry and Ron talked over the finer points of the Cannons’ latest match. “I know the traditional recipe says to crush wyvern eggshells, but that cancels out many of the properties of pine root. I was thinking or replacing them with owl eggshells. I know it sounds like a long shot, but…” Harry let Draco continue, making the odd noise of encouragement, but not wholly following—or listening—to what he was saying. He loved watching Draco get so animated, a pretty pink flush on his cheeks and light shining in his grey eyes.

"Harry, the fish is burning.”

“What?”

“The fish—“

“Ah! No!”

“Yes, there it is,” Draco laughed.


	2. On Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco loves ice skating. Harry...doesn't.

ON ICE

“Come on, Scarhead, you’re falling behind!”

Draco was built for the winter. Harry marveled at it every time the season came. The pointy git—who, admittedly, was far less pointy nowadays—may have been freezing all the time and stole all of Harry’s good jumpers, but he was suited for the cold. He practically blended in with the snow with his pale blonde hair, fair skin and grey eyes that had been so frigid in the past. Not now, though. Never now, not unless Harry messed up spectacularly, and even then it was only for so long.

His hat was pulled so low and his scarf wrapped so tightly around his face that Harry could only see from a bit above his dark blonde eyebrows to just below his nose. Snowflakes clung to his eyelashes, his cheeks glowing pink, a teasing light shining in his eyes.

Draco loved ice skating. There was a pond near their place, frequented by many of the Muggles who lived in their neighborhood, which he was particularly fond of. He could go forwards and backwards, do figure-eights and spins that left Harry feeling quite dizzy just watching him. He was positively elegant on the ice, gliding with such grace and speed it was as though he was flying.

In contrast, Harry was clumsy and awkward. He had never learned to skate as a child, and no matter how he tried now, he could never get the hang of it. His back was always rigid, his knees bent and locked at a stiff angle to try to keep his balance, arms and hands held out in front of him in case he fell. He thought that one of the reasons Draco loved skating so much was because he had finally found something athletic that he was much better at than Harry—they were often so evenly matched otherwise, though Harry usually won, despite his partner giving him a very good run for his money. If you didn’t count dancing as athletic, that is. Which of course Harry did not. No winner or loser, no competition—dancing wasn’t a sport, it was simply pure torture.

As he usually did, after lapping Harry a few times around the pond, Draco got bored being alone. “Here,” he said, the smile still on his face. He gently but firmly took Harry’s gloved hands in his own and started slowly skating backwards, leading Harry forward. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Harry grumbled at that. “I won’t, and you know it.”

Draco smirked, that expression that had been so infuriating on him when they were in school, but Harry could see the warmth in his eyes. “I know.”

"You just like seeing me struggle.”

The dimple in his right cheek deepened. “I might. What would you do if I let you go right now?”

They were in the middle of the pond. “You wouldn’t,” Harry retorted, a warning in his voice.

Draco laughed, pulling away and skating backwards merrily to perch on a frozen, felled tree by the edge of the pond as Harry watched, aghast. _I would_ , his smug expression said. “It’s quite chilly over there, isn’t it?” He called and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them for emphasis. “You should come join me here, you’re always so warm.”

"Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry called, exasperated but resigned. He would stand there, perfectly still, until Draco came to fetch him again. No way he was giving him a show like the first time they’d skated together—Harry had fallen spectacularly, his glasses skidding across the ice, belly first on the ground. Draco had laughed so hard he nearly fell over, and when Harry found he couldn’t properly get up, Draco laughed until he cried before taking pity on him, retrieving his glasses and helping him up. Harry halfheartedly sulked for a few hours after, but he was never too good at moping for very long, and Draco had certainly made it up to him later.

“I’m getting rather cold,” Draco called. “I think I’ll head back to the house. Though if you’d like to continue, feel free to stay—it looks like you’re having a blast.”

Harry sighed. Draco wouldn’t leave him out there; he knew, what with the Muggles around, that he couldn’t risk apparating in the middle of the open pond. He was just having fun teasing him, that was all.

“Alright, well, if that’s what you’d like, I’ll see you at home.” Draco shot him a wicked grin, pulling on his boots and walking down the tree trunk to the underbrush, where Harry heard the faint but unmistakable _pop_ of apparition.

“That _bastard_ ,” Harry whispered disbelievingly. _He really did it, the bastard._

Harry was still trying to calculate the shortest possible route to the side of the pond with the fewest number of potential obstacles when he heard the _pop_ again a few minutes later. Draco’s head appeared from behind clumps of scraggly, skinny branches, carrying a small box in his arms. Harry let out a breath in relief and watched Draco hop up onto the tree, place his bundle down, and put his skates back on.

"I really thought you’d left me alone for a minute there,” Harry said as Draco glided over, making the whole thing look infuriatingly effortless.

"I considered it,” he grinned, “but then I decided to take pity on you.” He offered his arm for Harry to hold on to, guiding him back to the tree.

"Where did you go? And what did you bring back?”

"I popped over to Pansy’s shop for a second or two. I got your favorite.”

Harry groaned when he opened the box. “You’re a blessing.” Treacle tart—Pansy ran a wonderful bakery. She insisted most of the baking was Millie and Nott, but Draco had his suspicions. Even Pansy had hobbies. And he’d brought back hot chocolate, too, laden with marshmallows.

"I know. We’ll have to get them something nice for Christmas,” Draco mused, cradling the steaming cup close to him with his knees drawn in for warmth. “All this free food I’ve taken from their kitchens, it’s a wonder they make any profit at all.”

"Mm-hmm,” Harry hummed in happy agreement through a mouthful of pastry.  He quite figured at that moment that if anything was a wonder, it was his boyfriend.


	3. Cookies

_ COOKIES _

Harry stomped his feet on the rug at the front door and toed off his muddy shoes before following a delicious scent into the kitchen.

"Hello, hero.” Draco was the only one who could get away with calling him that, and he knew it. He greeted Harry with a quick kiss on the cheek, poised with a mixing bowl aloft to walk across to where Luna was rolling out the cookies. There were piles and piles of them on plates stacked around the counter, on the kitchen table, and on top of the fridge. “How was your day?”

Harry snatched a cookie off the nearest plate and stuffed it in his mouth before Draco could swat it out of his hand. “ ’Sallright,” he got out before swallowing heavily—in his haste he’d been a bit overambitious. “Stared at some unhelpful suspects in the Prewett case for about three hours in the interrogation room today. Nothing much. How are your orders going?”

Draco let out a manic, strangled-sounding sound that might have been a laugh in some other circumstance. “I don’t want to think about it. I have so many to do. I needed to get away.” Draco patted Luna’s frizzy head. “She’s helping me.” She beamed at Harry, waving a spatula covered in melted chocolate and nearly dripping it in Draco’s immaculate hair. “Hullo, Harry!”

It was a tradition, the week before Christmas, that they give little baskets of food and treats to the soup kitchens and homeless shelters in their area. Draco took it very seriously. “I was very nearly one of them in line there, after the reparations,” he’d said to Harry one year. “And I’m trying to be better. That’s why it’s important.” Harry thought he’d already achieved it, the being better, though he hadn’t said it then—walking down the frigid street, the tips of their fingers turning blue carrying boxes of food piled up three or four high in the cold hadn’t been conducive for meaningful conversation. 

Draco tried. He tried very hard. It frustrated Harry that other people couldn’t see it. The posh brat he’d known in school would never have been handing over boxes of lumpy cookies he’d spent the past twelve hours running around the kitchen making. He would never willingly even touch a Muggle object, let alone try to use one. Harry knew that sometimes, a few times a month, his partner volunteered at the hospital across town. He knew it because Draco had made him come with him his first few days on the job, nervous and jumpy and, though he would never admit it, very frightened of the strange new people he was about to interact with—but he did it all the same, even if it had taken a not insignificant amount of pep talks, as well as a long hug that one time when Draco had apparated home frustrated to the point of tears after feeling awkward and out of his depth all day. He had wanted to help, and with Harry supporting him, he’d done it. It had been hard for him, and he still felt guilty often, still had nightmares, still had to fight his upbringing with every step, but he did it nonetheless. It was one of the many things Harry loved him for.

 


	4. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco visits the Weasleys.

_ THE PARTY _

“I bet,” Draco slurred, “if we had you as keeper, Ginerva, and then Ronald as a beater, then Harry and I could beat you if we were both chasers.” Most at the party probably couldn’t tell Draco was drunk—he always held himself very precisely, and worked very hard to not let it affect his speech. Even when he was drinking, he struggled against it to be prim as usual, probably one of the many reasons he didn’t drink very much, usually. But Harry knew his boyfriend, and his smile was always lazier, his posture relaxed and his eyes more mischievous after he’d had a few, something he only let himself indulge in if he was already completely at ease in his environment.

“You don’t wanna make that bet,” Ginny countered, gesticulating wildly and her bright hair illuminated by the fire. “I was forced to play Keeper way too much growing up. I’m probably still better than most of you. Also, your logic makes no sense, because then my team would have no one to score.”

“That’s _why_ we’d win,” Draco clarified. “Also, you’re a professional Quidditch player, you’re already better than most of us at it. That’s why we put you at Keeper so you have to stay near the posts. Can’t be flying around out-playing the rest of us.”

“Keeper is a very important position,” Ron said indignantly, nursing his fourth—or fifth—beer. “I was Keeper.”

“Mm, yes, Ronald. I remember.”

“Man, why…It’s been so long. Do you know what a nickname is?”

“I don’t know, Weaselbee, do I?”

Harry sank down in his seat and enjoyed the faint floating sensation taking hold of him. The Weasley’s Christmas party had overflowed from the confines of the Burrow, and so there became a small gathering outside, huddled around a fire. Cozy armchairs were summoned from, well, somewhere, extra-strength heating charms were put at their backs, and three coolers full of alcohol had been levitated out with them.

Harry contentedly watched Draco banter with the Weasleys. His integration as Harry’s plus-one had been rocky when he’d first started coming over. 

Harry had been nervous telling Molly about who he was dating. In fact, he'd hid it from her for weeks, losing his nerve whenever she mentioned dating. He was nervous to even tell her he was interested in men as well as women, remembering vividly all the unflattering things the Dursleys had to say about "people like that". But Molly wasn't a thing like the Dursleys, and once Hary finally managed to blurt out that he had a boyfriend, she took it in stride. "What's his favorite dessert?" she asked. "We can have him over for dinner next week, I'll make it for him."

Of course, this had prompted Harry to try to explain who his boyfriend was. "He--well, he might be a bit nervous coming over, he's...well, it's Malfoy."

Molly's eyebrows flew up. She regarded him for a bit with pursed lips, deciding what to say. "Well, then. Even more reason to have him here. 6 o'clock this Saturday, alright Harry dear?"

Draco had been snappish and jittery that whole day leading up to dinner. He fiddled with his hair, with his sleeves, with his collar. Harry made him leave the tie at home. "It's just the Weasleys," he assured him. "There's no need to be formal."

Draco opened his mouth to say something, possibly insulting, probably out of habit, but Harry silenced him with a look. So off they went.

Molly was wonderful, if a bit frosty towards Draco at first. But she took interest once he and Arthur became locked in a long conversation about Muggle "ekletricity", and how Draco explained that he had studied with Muggles for a year, and actually had a number of friends that he tried to keep up with every now and then, despite it being difficult for him to hide his heritage, kowing so little at first about Muggle culture. That, and the rousing endorsement from Harry articulated by the fact that Draco was even present, was all Arthur had to hear before he decided that the Malfoy boy was really changing for the better.

Ron, having seen Draco and heard about him so much from Harry before, was well prepared for the more human side the Malfoy heir was in fact capable of displaying.He had worked with him before on a number of cases that involved potential poisoning or deadly potions, as Draco was one of the youngest Potions Masters to grace the United Kingdom. They even shared a few pints every now and again after work, though always with others around them. And he, more than anyone, trusted Harry's judgement. Any doubts that Malfoy wasn't good enough for his best friend were washed away by the sheer force of the man's effort to redeem himself, and any suspicion that Malfoy was dating Harry for the wrong reasons dissolved when he watched how he looked at him. Bloody hell, he'd never seen that sort of expression on the Ferret's face before. It looked...frighteningly fond. He shuddered, turning his attention to the food on his plate. Molly's cooking never presented him with difficulties, unlike their company.

However, Ginny had been away with the Harpies for the months leading up to Christmas that first year, and couldn’t understand why it had to be him Harry chose to date. She wasn't the jealous type, thankfully, but she was the type to hold a grudge, and Draco spend many dinners side-eyeing her, wand tucked in his pocket for easy access in case the Bat-Boogey Hexes started flying. Surprisingly, though, it was Ginny who approached Draco towards the end of one dinner a few weeks in despite her suspicions. “Harry has good taste,” she smirked, one eyebrow quirked in challenge. “So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…if you go convince Ron that the Harpies are head and shoulders above the Cannons on every level imaginable.”

Much to Ginny’s surprise and grudging respect, he actually went and started an argument with him about it. She hadn't expected him to, but the fallout was spectacular.

The only other person to voice any sort of opposition was, curiously, Fleur. When she found out about him she was upset for Bill’s sake, though he didn't seem all that perturbed by it, to be honest--if he was good enough for Harry to accept him, Bill could accept that. She and Draco had a very, very long conversation in the corner in rapid French, both wearing intense expressions, pursed lips and bright eyes.

Harry wished he spoke French so he could understand what they were saying, but whatever it was must have been good enough, because Fleur didn't demand he be kicked out. Harry also wished Draco would speak to him in French, and made the mistake of telling him. Even though he couldn't understand a word, the sound was incredibly attractive.

After that, Draco made a point to speak to him every now and then in French. Sometimes it was fond, sometimes it was insulting. Sometimes it could have been either, and it often confused Harry. He asked Draco what it meant every time, and every time he'd get some sort of teasing, outlandish answer that most certainly was not what he'd said. So he set up a difficult to detect recording charm to capture the sentences, automatically activated whenever the language was spoken in the house.

When he typed the recordings into the public library's web search engines, he usually found they were in fact often extremely imaginative and colorful insults. Others were descriptions of what he wanted to do to Harry that particular night, or what he wanted done to him, so graphic Harry blushed to his hair and immediately wiped the search history on the browser. A few times, though, when Draco spoke it was soft and gentle and Harry didn't need to know what Draco was saying, didn't want to type it in. He saved the recordings and would listen to them sometimes, mulling them over, the way Draco's voice flowed over the vowels and consonants. Especially when he was gone on raids for days at a time, missing being home, missing sleeping in their soft bed next to his gorgeous boyfriend. 

He knew that in those recordings, Draco was telling him the vulnerable things he'd be too afraid to admit in a language Harry could understand. The feelings that made Draco feel ashamed and scared because they were so big, the ones that made living with him so difficult sometimes because he didn't know what to do with them, and ran away from them instead. Even though the recordings were meant for him and only him, Harry couldn't translate them. It felt too much like an invasion of privacy. When Draco was ready to tell him, and in a language he could understand, he would. He could wait for that.

Draco was worth it. He was always, always worth it.


	5. The Present (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to think of a present to get Draco and gets caught up remembering.

_ THE PRESENT (PART I) _

Harry still wasn’t exactly sure of what Christmas present to get Draco, but he had a hunch. He’d already bought him a number of different items—a new jumper (with the bust of a stag woven into the front, he’d liked that) to go along with the Weasley jumper he’d surely receive, a knit hat because he’d wrecked his last one in a snowstorm, a new book of potion’s research he knew he couldn’t wait to get his hands on. Some potions ingredients that he knew for a fact required high-level clearance to obtain, because he himself had high-level clearance. But he wanted to buy him something else. Harry never really got presents growing up, and took pride in being able to get them for his loved ones now. He wanted to get something special.

He mulled it over, walking down Diagon alley aimlessly. He had a faint Disillusionment charm on, just enough so no one he wasn’t close with would recognize him—it was a spell he’d had to get quite good at, with his job.

The first thing that came to Harry’s mind was a recent trip they’d taken with Teddy to the pet store next to the owlry. To Draco’s initial dismay, the little boy was even more taken with him than he was Harry, and would cling on his finely pressed shirts and trousers with grubby hands and pleading eyes. However, after only a short while, Draco spoiled him like no other. Unless Harry was there to keep them in check, every time Teddy visited he would return to Andy’s house with that thousand-watt little boy smile of his, wearing half an ice cream cone down his front—more than a few times he came back wearing a new jumper, even, because “ _My_ nephew is not walking around in crusty, food-stained clothes when there are perfectly good ones hanging just in the shop”.

They had gone into the pet store because Teddy was enamored with a large, colorful parrot who sat in the window regally and determinedly ignored the staring little boy, even as his hair flashed red, orange and green to mimic the parrot’s feathers. The shop owner, a portly, jolly looking mustachioed man, offered to coax the bird down from his perch so Teddy could pet him, which the little boy enthusiastically accepted.

Draco had wandered off, disliking the parrot—he muttered about how it reminded him too much of the peacocks his mother used to keep, who  had never taken a liking to him and had given him a good pecking one too many times. Because of them Draco had learned a deep distrust of all birds, and obstinately refused to share in Teddy’s admiration. However, he found something even more delightful.

Harry strolled through the aisles in the shop as Teddy made friends with the parrot, wondering where his partner had gone. He stopped to chat with a few of the corn snakes in a tank in the corner, a talent that hadn’t faded with Voldemort, much to Teddy’s awe whenever he employed it. They were very helpful, about both where Draco was and about how to style his hair next time, and the conversation left him peering around the next aisle while self-consciously trying to straighten out the mop of unruly curls on his head.

Harry found the heir to the Malfoy estate sitting on the floor, trying in vain to keep three wiggling puppies in his lap, looking positively overwhelmed and more excited than Harry had seen him in a great while. He scuffed his shoe and Draco turned, beaming at him.

“Look, Harry!” he gushed, though he would argue later that he never did any such thing. “Look at them! _Look! At them!_ ”

“I see them,” Harry smiled as one courageous pup tried to make a break for it and Draco scooped her up with one hand.

“They’re so good,” Draco announced, having held the dogs for about twenty seconds at that point and feeling he had a good grasp of their personalities. “They’re brilliant. I love them.” One of them licked his cheek, a small brown one with a white spot on her ear, and Draco gasped. “She’s _beautiful_.”

“Hey Teddy,” Harry called. “Would you like to make some new friends?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Both Teddy and Draco were completely distraught when they left the store empty handed. Of the two, Harry had to say that Draco was only somewhat better at handling his disappointment.

“I love dogs,” he sighed. “They’re always so happy.”

“I would have pegged you for a cat person,” Harry mused, taking Teddy’s hand as they continued walking down the street.

“I would have, too,” Draco admitted. “Cat’s are generally smarter, which I do like—if I ever got a dog myself, it would have to be an intelligent one, or I would just make fun of the poor dumb thing. But they’re always very excited to be near you, which I like. It’s less lonely.”

Loneliness was a thing Draco had struggled with often, even after meeting Harry. His friend group had dwindled after the war, down only to Pansy and Blaise. Though of course Greg, Millie and Nott were around on the periphery, Draco no longer considered them close. And otherwise, people tended to be rather aggressive towards him, often even violent at first—he had learned very quickly to avoid crowds. After he began dating Harry publically, much of that outright threat dwindled save for a few fanatics who believed their Savior was being seduced by an evil Death Eater, and Harry made sure to deal with them harshly. Even so, he knew that most places he went he would most likely be regarded with suspicion and dislike if not outright disdain. It made him more than a bit of a shut-in, and working alone in his potions lab at home didn’t exactly offer endless opportunities to socialize.

As Harry gazed at the pet shop sign and chewed his lip in indecision, he was struck by a different memory. A far less happy one.

One of those fanatics determined to save the Chosen one had been following Draco for a number of weeks. Draco hadn’t mentioned the strange prickling sensation he got on the back of his neck sometimes when he was out, or the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach indicating that something was amiss. He didn’t want to worry him. He had plenty to worry about, at his job—he had probably just listened to too many stories about Harry’s stakeouts with Ron before the redhead went on paternity leave, of daring chases through alleys and across rooftops. The war was long gone and people were trying to overcome their prejudices on all sides; he had nothing more to worry about, he knew he was just being irrational.

Every morning Draco went on a forty-five minute run through the park in their neighborhood before having breakfast. It was a beautiful wooded place just by the pond, a few benches here and there but mostly just hilly trails through the tall trees. He found it relaxing, to be alone with nature in those early hours of the morning when the sun was just peeking out over the horizon and everything was bathed in soft, new light.

It had just begun to get chilly, that October day. Draco could see his breath when he ran, felt the cold air permeate his lungs as he breathed in deep. He was about halfway through his run, two of three miles into the woods, when he got that strange prickly feeling again of being watched.

He picked up the pace, chastising himself for being paranoid but moving faster regardless. He heard rustling behind him, the _snap_ of twigs under a boot, the _crunch_ of fast footsteps—

_"Impedimena!”_

_"Expelliarmus!”_

Draco had learned how to defend himself in the war. Merlin knows he’d needed to. Afterwards, his reflexes had gotten a bit rusty, being cooped up in the Manor for a year. Once he’d started dating Harry, though, the Auror hadn’t let him get away with sliding on his self-defense skills—better to be prepared for the worst than to get hurt. Harry insisted. They sparred at least once a week, and they pushed each other hard, though it was usually not as aggressively competitive as it had been when they were children.

He was immediately and forcefully grateful for Harry’s lessons at that moment. He ducked behind a tree, clinging to the bark, his eyes wide and frantically darting towards where he’d heard the shouted spell. His assailant’s had missed—he’d jumped out of the way just in time—but because he had thrown his counter-spell hastily, as he was moving, he was fairly sure he had too.

Draco’s mind was racing. Whoever it was, they couldn’t have been an Auror. They were clumsy, breaking branches and causing ruckus. But that didn’t narrow down much. He was infamous, and many people had more than enough reason to try to hurt him.

Crunch. _“Stupefy!”_

He ducked, pressing himself even closer to the tree, and shot a quick _“Incarcerous!”_ to where he’d heard the sound. From the muffled _thud_ and the small, grunting sounds of struggle, he thought he might have gotten him.

“Death Eater scum!” A ragged, furious deep voice screamed from the underbrush. “You should just go do us all a favor and _die_! You don’t deserve him! You don’t deserve _anything_!”

Draco was already running, before the other man even finished the sentence. He said more, he was sure, but he wasn’t there to listen, and his ears weren’t functioning properly anyway. He tore back down his running route, sprinting through the woods at a breakneck pace, his strides frantic and unmeasured and only one thought clear in the white, obliterating adrenaline of his mind.

When he’d gotten back to the house, he slammed the door hard enough to make the plates rattle in their cabinet. Harry, still sleepy and slowly puttering around the kitchen, dropped his mug from the shock of it, where it shattered on the floor.

Draco sank to the ground, knees pulled in tight to himself, hands around his head, his breathing irregular and in great, gulping gasps and wheezes. Harry was at his side immediately.

“Hey, hey, shhh,” he soothed him, trying his best not to let his own panic taint his voice. “Are you hurt? Draco, sweetheart, are you hurt?” He ran his hands down his arms and legs, but couldn’t find any visible sign of injury. Just the fact that Draco hadn’t bitten his head off for the term of endearment meant he was very shaken indeed.

“N-no,” Draco stuttered, trying valiantly to calm down, but his body had other ideas. “Th-there was a-a-a man, h-he—he—” He burst into tears.

Harry pulled him into his lap, wrapping his arms around him protectively and pressing Draco’s head into the fabric of his jumper at his chest, which he clung to desperately. He was worried, rightly so; he knew Draco always had his emotions tightly controlled, and even though he’d begun to trust him, this was the first time outside of their nightmares late in the early hours of the morning and protected in their bed that Harry had seen him break down like this.

Draco held him so tightly that breathing became rather uncomfortable, but he didn’t have the heart to tell him so. If it calmed him down, it was worth it. He carded his fingers through the sweaty blonde hair and rubbed his back slowly for long minutes on end until Draco’s tears abated and his breathing returned to normal.

When he finally was calm enough to recount what had happened, Harry was absolutely furious. He spoke quietly to his boyfriend, his voice never rising from its soothing tone, but Draco could see the anger flash in his green eyes and the jerky way he impatiently shoved on his Auror robes, nearly ripping them at the seams.

He kissed him on the forehead before he left. “If you need anything at all, even if it’s stupid, or if you feel even the tiniest bit unsafe or panicked, you send for me, alright? If you don’t have the energy to cast your Patronus, I’ll have my mobile on me, you can use the landline. Okay?”

Draco huffed moodily, embarrassed to be treated so gently, humiliated at his undignified display on the ground in front of the door. But his eyes were still red, his face was still pale, and his usual snark was subdued. He wanted to tell Harry to sod off, but he also wanted to crawl back into his arms and never leave. He settled for a nod instead. “I’m fine, Potter.” He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It’s nothing. This is…it’s nothing.”

Harry kissed him again. “It’s not nothing, Draco. I have to go. I love you,” he said, backing away towards the floo.

“Love you,” he repeated hoarsely, his voice sounding lost and barely above a whisper, the noise consumed by the roar of the flames.

What Harry had said and done at the Ministry had made the front page of the Prophet the next day and got him suspended for a week, but he didn’t care. It was worth it, if it meant they didn’t have to put up with this shit anymore. He was fuming all day, torn between meeting with Robards and Kingsley to try to get something done, sending his Patronus to Draco to check up on him, and venting to Ron. He was so keyed up he snapped at the annoying mousey new Auror, the one who always tripped over his own feet when he saw Harry and looked as if he was going to start bowing reverently.

Ron thought it was all rather funny, actually, once the life-threatening part of it was removed. These idiots all had it backwards, convinced that Draco was tricking Harry into a relationship; it had taken Harry _months_ to convince Draco to actually go out with him, and Ron had had to hear it all, every single detail about all of Harry’s efforts, until he’d gotten so exasperated he’d gone over to Draco’s and told the ferrety little man—significantly less ferrety than in fourth year—that for everyone’s sake and sanity he just needed to give the poor bloke a chance.

The following few days, Harry absolutely doted on Draco, making sure he never wanted for anything, always by his side. Draco, who loved being fawned over, was not entirely surprised to find that he detested this attention; it felt tainted and cumbersome, an uncomfortable twitchy thing borne out of acute distress rather than softness.

His discomfort mounted until it became frustration, edging on anger, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. “Stop,” he finally snapped one night, after Harry had done nothing in particular that either of them could recall, but Draco _knew_ he’d done it in that suffocating manner he used. He pushed his plate back in exasperation and threw his napkin on it angrily. “Please, just stop. I’m not going to break, I promise, Harry.”

“Sorry, I—”

“Oh, my god, stop apologizing. You _fucking_ prick.” He got out of his chair so fast it grated against the floor and fell over. Harry saw his mouth contorted in an unbelieving, fed-up half-smile that help none of its usual humor as he turned away, walking for the door.

“Wait.” Harry had originally gotten up to follow him, but found himself backpedaling as Draco rounded on him.

“Shut the hell up,” Draco snarled, and kissed him. His mouth was hot and demanding on his own, hard enough to bruise. And after that Harry didn’t have the breath to spare for any of those terrible, placating words Draco hated so much.

Harry blinked as the memory sped past, the shop sign reappearing in focus.

He knew he couldn’t be there to protect Draco all the time, and he knew that when he wasn’t there, Draco could protect himself just fine. But he still worried. And he knew Draco did, too.

He decided to go talk to a man about a dog.


	6. The Present (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry brings back a surprise.

_ THE PRESENT (PART II) _

“Where’d you go?” Draco called from inside the sitting room when he heard the door shut. “I know you already did all your Christmas shopping. There’s about ten different boxes under the tree, and I know I didn’t wrap them all myself.”

“I went to Diagon,” Harry called, keeping a firm arm around the large box with holes in the top that he was carrying and putting down his bag heavily, laden with dog food and toys. “I got another present.”  He peered in through one of the holes, and a black nose snuffled impatiently at him, a small whine escaping the little muzzle. “I know,” he whispered. “Just a few more seconds and I promise you’ll meet your new best friend.”

“Another one?” Draco’s surprise was apparent in his voice, though Harry knew he still wouldn’t get up. Once he’d started reading on the couch, he was an immovable object. “It better be for Teddy, Harry. This is too much.”

 “No, this is the last one for you. You’ll love it, I promise.” He walked into the room, the box, red ribbon shining in the light. “Though I’m afraid this one can’t wait for Christmas.”

“That’s—” Draco started, then noticed the holes in the top. His jaw dropped. “ _You did not.”_

He ripped the top open and reverently picked up the mottled little puppy panting happily at him, already wriggling in his grasp. He gently hugged the little dog to him, and the small creature licked his hands and face before squirming out of his lap to explore her new surroundings.

“She’s small now,” Harry said, “But the owner said she’ll get big soon. She’s part German shepherd, part Crup, and part something else that we don’t know about, so she’s very smart. She’ll need walks every day, twice of three times a day if we have time, though if you want to take her on our runs with you that’s even better. And I bought her a lot of toys so she doesn’t get bored.”

Draco laughed as she fumbled over her paws and threw herself inelegantly off the couch the short distance to the rug. “She’s a bit clumsy.” His elation was plain as day on his face.

“Her paws are way too big for her right now, she’ll grow into them.”

He threw his arms around Harry and kissed the side of his face over and over. “I love her. Thank you, Harry.”

Harry grinned and bit his lip. “I did consider bringing back the parrot instead, but…”

“It would have bitten me, and then I would have put it in our next dinner. Waste of five perfectly good Galleons, that. She’s much better. She’s delightful.”

“I’m glad. What are you going to name her?”

“I don’t know. I need to get to know her first.”

Draco spent the next three hours straight playing with the new puppy. Completely knackered after such an eventful day, she crawled into his lap and promptly dropped off to sleep, snoring a bit on top of his knee.

“Any inspiration yet?” Harry asked.

“Naming is a very delicate thing,” Draco cautioned. “It’ll follow her for the rest of her life. I need to think some more.”

It took him three more days to figure out a name for her. Harry thought it was a bit ironic—it seemed an odd name for a dog, but Draco loved it, and Ursula seemed to like it just fine, so Ursula she became.


End file.
